“He’s a fucking process server!” said Kuz, finding his feet and using the process papers to dust off his khakis.
“So which is it?” asked the security officer. “Cop or process server?”
“Both,” said Lucky, fending off their looks with a shrug. “So what? I’m moonlighting!”
“That means you’re both trespassing on private property,” said the security officer. “Gonna have to ask you to please get in the vehicle.”
“How’s this?” offered Lucky, snagging his prize by the back of the collar and jerking him as if setting a hook. “I turn around and drag runt-fuck’s ass back over the fence and we forget this ever happened?”
“If you’re really with the Sheriffs,” said the security officer, “then you get process.”
“We really gonna do it this way?” asked Lucky.
“Lockheed’s a government contractor,” said the security officer. “Homeland Security writes our rules. Now please. Get in the truck.”
Though Lucky shook his head in disbelief, he quickly relented for no reason other than he’d ridden down such a road way too many times before. Whether it was the feebs or just some bullshit jurisdictional beef between County deputies and the jack-booted LAPD, it was always more efficient in the short term to acquiesce and let the bureaucrats have their petty rules.
As Lucky started toward the back of the SUV, the red-headed runner’s tony deck shoes seemed to be stuck in the asphalt. So Lucky popped him in the back of the head with an open hand.
“The both of us means me and you,” reminded Lucky.
“I have a business to get back to,” said Kuz in a practiced protest that Lucky wrote off as that of a habitual shirker of responsibility. “Asshole. You should’ve left me to my breakfast.”
“Next time don’t run, Kuz.”
“Not Kuz. Koooooz. You hear the ‘ooooo’ sound? Kuz. That’s how you say my name.”
“Get in the truck Kuuuuuuz before I hang you up and use you for a piñata.”
Blood Money Page 32
